


warm like your hand in mine

by polkaprintpjs



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:20:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25418350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polkaprintpjs/pseuds/polkaprintpjs
Summary: Swerve’s isn’t any louder than usual, but Whirl swears he feels his plating rattle from the noise. The noise is the issue, no doubt about it. He doesn’t think about how Tailgate’s little leg just brushing his has his sensornet on fucking fire, how his entire world is narrowed down to not flinching from that tiny point of contact in a spasm of too much t oo mu c h. He’s not thinking about it. He’s listening to Cyclonus speak, the jet’s voice rumbling past the chaos of the rest of the bar.
Relationships: Cyclonus/Tailgate (Transformers)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 55





	warm like your hand in mine

**Author's Note:**

> whirl is touch starved. thats it thats the fic

Swerve’s isn’t any louder than usual, but Whirl swears he feels his plating rattle from the noise. The noise is the issue, no doubt about it. He doesn’t think about how Tailgate’s little leg just brushing his has his sensornet on  _ fucking fire _ , how his entire world is narrowed down to not flinching from that tiny point of contact in a spasm of  _ too much t oo mu c h _ . He’s not thinking about it. He’s listening to Cyclonus speak, the jet’s voice rumbling past the chaos of the rest of the bar. 

He’s listening so fucking hard, in fact, he realizes he’s still listening when Cyclonus is making concerned faces in his direction. Aw fuck, Cyc’d finished talking a few minutes back. Whirl rapidly cycles through options- pretend he’s been aware and paying attention, deflect, distract, act like he’s still zoned out- but it’s made significantly harder by the fact that all his concentration and proccessor power flies right out the fucking window,  _ schwoooop _ there it goes, when Tailgate puts a hand on his arm, leans up and around to see his optic around his cockpit. 

Yeah, that doesn’t help  _ at all _ . Abruptly, Whirl decides enough is enough. He heaves himself to his feet- with enough preparatory plating flares to give Legs the hint it’s time to move- and turns to go. He knows Cyc starts to get up, waves him off with a claw as he dodges Roddy’s- whatever the hell  _ that’s _ supposed to be, dancing? And ducks out the door. 

It’s almost time for his shift, anyway- a few joors, maybe, but so much to do before- a trip to the washracks, a spin around the lower levels to really stretch his rotors out, hiding in his habsuite… The possibilities are endless! Whirl heads toward the washrack closest to his hall as he mentally backtracks. Not  _ hiding _ , why would  _ he _ hide? Whirl, unvincible badass with no known weaknesses, didn’t need to hide.  He was just gonna, what was it their dear captain said? 

_ Take stock. _ Yeah. That’s what he’d do. The washracks on this level are closed, it turns out. _ Fantastic _ . He thinks about it for a second, decides he’ll skip ahead to the taking stock bit. 

Getting into his room takes a minute- there’s a whole cluster of mecha parked right in front of his hab’s door. Just walking through gets results, though; they yell and somebody gets brave and smacks his shoulder with an open palm. 

Whirl whips around so fucking fast, makes sure they all get an eyeful of his chest guns. Wisely, everyone keeps their hands to themselves this time. As the door slides shut behind him, he catches a bare murmur of “ _ -king prick _ ,” but doesn’t bother. Whatever. 

He flops onto his bed, twisting so his cockpit is out of the way. Just as he slumps onto the berth, determined to just  _ not think _ , his comm pings. Great. Goody.  _ Yay _ . It’s Cyclonus, informing him that he was still expected at their dumb movie night. Tailgate and Rewind had set up a projector system and scrounged up some old drives with even older moves, so Hornhead and Legs could have their date nights privately- even though for  _ some fucking reason _ they kept inviting him. 

Whirl shoves his helm under the blanket he was mostly laying on, which accomplishes nothing except wedging his neck at an uncomfortable angle. They’d figured their shit out! The hell did they keep trying to bring him into it for? He dismisses the message, unanswered. They’d figure it out when he didn’t show. 

* * *

Tailgate checked his comm again. Still nothing, and even though he’d tried not to hope, he’s still disappointed. He comms Whirl again, even though Cyclonus had warned him not to push. 

Whirl is loud and big and a lot, honestly, but he’s been… better, lately. Tailgate isn’t sure why Whirl had bolted from Swerve’s like that, but he’s not just going to let him stew. 

[Hey, Birdy. Sure you don’t want to join us? We’re watching Talladega Nights.] His comm pings back [status: unavailable] and Tailgate frowns, a bit. Whirl used to turn off his comm randomly, but not in a while. 

He considers, then pings Cyclonus so he doesn’t disturb the other movie-watchers. 

[Should we go check on him?] 

Cyclonus glances his way, his red optics intent and considering. Tailgate waits, pretending to watch the movie. Ricky Bobby doesn’t seem to like the ‘kitty’, which kinda confuses him; don’t humans love cats? Maybe humans don’t like grown-up cats, which makes sense because the internet is full of kittens and other cats small enough to be held by humans. The cat in Ricky’s car is way too big for that, so it’s probably an adult. 

Cyclonus comms him, cutting off that line of thought. 

[I will go. Wait here?] 

Tailgate pings back an affirmative. As worried as he is about Whirl, the helicopter will probably react better to Cyclonus. They had a weird bond he was pretty sure was based on the fact they got together once every couple cycles to ‘spar’, which seemed to mean beating the slag out of each other. 

Cyclonus stood and left without offering anyone else an explanation; the only person who reacted was Brainstorm, who started heckling for getting in the way of the projector. Tailgate settles down to focus on the movie. Ricky’s wearing a blindfold now, which he’s pretty sure humans aren’t supposed to do when driving- don’t they need optical sensors ( _ eyes _ , that’s what they’re called) to see?

* * *

Whirl’s shift had come and gone, and he was still flopped across his berth. Ugh. It didn’t help that his helm was a pulsing ache that matched the stutter of his fuel pump and the blink of notifications across his HUD, letting him know just how fucking  _ popular _ he was at the moment. He’d bothered to comm Pipes to step in for his shift; he doesn’t bother mashing his helm into the berth.

He can’t get close to consistent pressure where it’ll help, anyway, and the static that fills his optic feed at blanket pressure just isn’t worth what little relief he’d get. He shoves his claws under his abdomen to avoid the urge to just  _ rip _ at the pain until it goes away or gets overwritten by other errors- the medical staff is this close to tossing his ass right back out the doors if he stumbles in bloody and torn again this cycle. Whatever. 

He can’t quite hide his flinch when someone raps on his door, but it’s fine because he’s the only one here. They knock again, and he stays quiet- chances are it’s either TG or Cyc, and he doesn’t want to deal with either of their lovey-dovey asses- or worse, it’s both. His luck, it’s probably both. 

Another set of knocks, louder and more forceful. At the same time, Cyc pings him for entry. He answers appropriately. 

[Fuck off.] 

Cyclonus takes this in stride, apparently, and knocks harder. Mother _ fucker _ . 

[Fuck. Off. Hornhead. Not in the mood. Busy.]

Cyclonus, the dick, comms him right back. 

[You are not. Open the door.]

Whirl narrows his optic at the door, twisting to peer back over his shoulder. 

[Am too. Goodbye. Or not.]

Cyclonus hits the door this time, and Whirl is honestly surprised the damn thing hasn’t flown off its hinges. Grumpily, he sends the code for the door, and it slides open immediately. He flops his helm back on the berth and ignores big, mean and purple as he steps inside. He can feel Cyc watching him by the itch on his plating. No TG, though, and he’s irritated all over again by his disappointment. Cyc still doesn’t say anything, just steps up next to the berth and leans over and- oh. Oh,  _ yes _ . 

Whirl practically melts as Cyc carefully presses his claws along the base of his helm and presses up. Misaligned housings and pinched wires send one last warning flare before the relief of absence is enough to make Whirl  _ dizzy _ . Fuck. He should’ve let Cyc in earlier. It’s a few short minutes before his plating starts to crawl, someone touching and warm and there and there’s nowhere to flinch, trapped between Cyc’s solid frame and the berth. He still wants to jerk away from the warmth of contact, but… fuck, he’s weak to the promise of being helmache-free if he just takes it a little bit longer. 

Cyc takes his wonderful,  _ dexterous _ hands back and steps away and Whirl mourns the loss, even as he notes the pain is much easier to handle, now. He flops over to stare at Cyc, legs splayed comfortably. Yeah, this is way better. Hornhead looks down at him for a long moment, the shadows in his dim hab making it that much harder to read Cyc. When he speaks, it’s quietly. 

“The movie is over. If you are feeling unwell in future, let us know.”

Whirl feels his optic go flat. 

“Sure thing, Hornhead,” he growls, pushing himself up to sit. He’s not really upset that apparently the important thing here is that cygate’s time was wasted; but he’s still a bit hazy from the momentary relief from pain and he’d rather not waste that on this conversation. No dice. Cyclonus keeps talking. 

“Tailgate is- concerned. He thinks he may have done something to make you uncomfortable at Swerve’s.” 

Whirl scoffs. “Puh-lease. Nah, just had stuff to do, you know how it is.” 

“I do. However, I do not think that you were truly so busy you left a good drink behind, nor do I think you would have ignored both Tailgate and I all cycle if you were only busy, rather than sulking.” 

Whirl shoots upright, bristling. He’s not afraid to loom over Cyc; he’s taller and heavier, and he’s  _ happy _ to make that clear. 

“Sulking? You don’t know  _ shit _ . If you’re just here to start shit, then let’s get this show on the road. I’m  _ busy _ later.” 

Cyclonus’s optics narrow and he flares his plating, trying to crowd Whirl back.  _ Not happening. _

“Whirl, we are concerned. I will leave you be, now. Do try not to be so _ busy _ next cycle; Tailgate is looking forward to your hax match.” 

He turns, and leaves, and Whirl spits after him.

“Don’t  _ fucking _ count on it.” 

Whirl shakes with the urge to lunge, hook his claws into purple plating and  _ wrench _ , to pull and ~~hug~~ tug until his own plating stops crawling with the sense-memory of Cyclonus touching him. It’s fine. He paces his hab until he stops shaking. Fuck.

* * *

Cyclonus lets the door slide shut behind him as he heads back to the storeroom where Tailgate is watching with the others. Whirl is difficult at times, and seems to take pleasure in being so; however, usually his fits have identifiable triggers, have reasons and causes. 

He’s not always easy to understand, but he at least does them the courtesy of verbalizing- often loudly- whatever it is he’s thinking. 

Cyclonus comms Tailgate as his feet draw closer. The little one responds immediately. 

[The new movie isn’t very good, want to call it a night?] 

Cyclonus pings back an affirmative, and Tailgate steps out to meet him as he comes to the door. He carefully grasps his ‘boo’, as Whirl says, by the hand. They head back to their shared hab, Tailgate filling him in on the rest of the movie he’d walked out on. He doesn’t fill Tailgate in on Whirl’s status until they’re back in their hab and Tailgate doesn’t ask. Whirl’s business doesn’t need to be spread about. 

Once they arrive at their hab, however, Tailgate steps away, spins to look up at him. Cyclonus sits on the berth to make it easier to hold optic contact. 

“Whirl was feeling unwell. He declined to explain why he left, and was upset when I pressed. I told him he was expected tomorrow.” 

Tailgate stares flatly. Cyclonus frowns, reviews what he’d said. He’s not entirely sure where he’d gone wrong, but clearly Tailgate is displeased.

* * *

Tailgate is remembering why it wasn’t until Whirl kicked Cyclonus’s aft into gear that he’d opened up. Cyclonus is a lot of things, but emotionally available isn’t one of them. Tailgate cycles a ventilation. 

“So, you asked him what was wrong and he said to go away, and you did?” 

He waves his hands when Cyclonus starts to answer. 

“You said he’s not feeling well, is he all right?”

Cyclonus hesitates, and Tailgate’s not sure if its because he won’t like to hear it, or because Cyclonus doesn’t want to betray Whirl’s trust. After a minute, though, Cyclonus tells him. 

“He had a rather severe helm ache; it seemed mostly stress based.” 

Tailgate sighs, relieved. That’s not the worst injury Whirl’s come up with, by far. 

“Right. Okay, did he say if he was coming tomorrow? I’ll try to figure it out then-” he pauses, sees Cyclonus wince.  “Ooor not. He’s not coming, is he.” 

Cyclonus offers a shake of his helm. 

“It is unlikely he will attend.” Tailgate scrubbed his hands across his visor in frustration. “Okay. Okay. We have the same shift tomorrow, I’ll make sure he’s all right then.” 

The next cycle, Tailgate comms Cyclonus a breem into his shift. 

[He swapped with Skids. New plan, I’m gonna go by his hab later.] 

Cyclonus pings back an affirmative and a  short message. 

[Good luck.] 

Tailgate turns back to his assigned tasks. He’s gonna need that luck, probably.

* * *

Whirl slouches on the floor, staring blankly across the room while he plays a racing game on his HUD. Claws make holding a controller hard, but linkup games are fun as hell, and only make concentrating on the outside world a little bit difficult. It’s fine, that’s why he only plays in his hab. 

That’s also why it takes him a bit to notice the tap tap tapping on his door. Ha. Ahah  _ no _ . He ignores it and sends his avatar into a burnout- this game doesn’t have an option to be a helicopter, or even another flight frame. 

Tailgate pings him, then knocks more forcefully when he shunts the alert aside. 

“Whirl,” Legs calls through the door. “Come on, Whirl. Open the door, or at least answer your comm.” 

Whirl thinks about it, decides he’s good, actually. No need for that. Tailgate doesn’t seem to agree, because he keeps knocking. And knocking. And knocking. Whirl glances at the last comm Legs had sent. 

[I can do this all night, Birdy.] 

It’s the nickname that caves him, in the end. 

Whirl stands, crosses the room to open the door. Tailgate barges in without asking, ignores Whirl’s grumbled “Oh, okay then.”

He turns a circle in the middle of the room as Whirl closes the door- checking for fresh damage to the walls, he notes dully.  _ Great _ . 

“Birdy,” TG says, still looking at the berth, “You okay?” 

Whirl sighs. He’s not in the mood for this. 

“Yeah, Legs. Just  _ peachy _ . Didja need something?” he steps close, leans down. 

“Need ol Whirlibird to kick Hornhead’s aft into gear?” 

TG snorts up at him, warm and playful and Whirl feels his spark stutter. 

“No, I want to make sure you aren’t being an idiot. Are you? Being an idiot, I mean.” 

Whirl stays in Legs’s space for a minute longer, just watching that blue visor, before he straightens back up, heads back to his seat on the floor by the wall. 

“Like I said, Legs. Fine.” 

TG trots over to join him, sits close enough he can feel the warmth of another frame brushing his. He wishes he hadn’t sat, but it’s too late now. Small mercies, TG doesn’t look his way, just looks around the room from his new, shorter point of view. Whirl feels his plating relax as time ticks on and the little guy doesn't push, doesn't try to talk. They just sit, together. 

It's...  _ nice _ . 

Or, at least, it is until Cyc pings for entry and Whirl tenses up all over again. TG lets him in without asking, and he really would protest but he's busy being distracted by Legs's hand on his thigh as he kneels up to peer at the door. Cyc closes the door as soon as he's in the room, walks right over to them. 

Whirl doesn’t look up at him, stares stubbornly ahead into the nothing, so  Cyc kneels in front of him. 

Whirl has to hand it to him, Cyc takes a while to get going but once he’s set on something, the jet’s like a dog with a bone. Cyc watches calmy, holds optic contact like a champ. Too bad for him; Whirl’s not about to play ball. 

“Birdy,” TG says, quietly. “We’re not going to keep pushing this, but. Just. We’re worried, Birdy. You haven’t freaked out like this in a while-” He doesn’t stop when Whirl flares his plating, offended, just keeps barreling on. “-You ran off, you’ve been avoiding us. You’re switching shifts. What’s going on?” 

Whirl keep his vocalizer the fuck off. What, like he’s gonna tell Legs and Hornhead that he’s a fucking coward over a few seconds of plating to plating contact?  _ Fuck _ that noise. 

Cyc doesn’t wait for an answer, just reaches forward with a handful of talons to cup under Whirl’s helm, and he’s so off guard (from the blatant disregard of,  _ hello _ , personal space?) that he just stares. Cyclonus rides out the reflexive jerk, holds him so carefully. 

Doesn’t squeeze, but holds firm. 

The time it takes Whirl to notice this is the time it takes him to gather himself enough to  _ react _ , but TG solves that little issue by wrapping his teeny hands around one of Whirl’s pincers, and he’s dumbstruck all over again. 

Cyclonus just keeps with the touching, and the optic contact, and waits. 

Whirl doesn’t know what he’s waiting for, doesn’t know why this steady contact is  _ better _ and  _ worse _ than the soft touches from before. 

It’s an endless time later, he thinks, and still not enough when Cyclonus hums, quietly, tightens his grip just enough he can feel the prickle of claws, though they don't pierce plating. 

“Whirl.” 

He says it calmly. 

“Enough of this. We are your friends. You will let us help, as you have helped us.” 

His voice says it's a foregone conclusion. Whirl scrapes enough comprehension back from the points of contact on his claw, his helm, to snap something back but Cyclonus is already talking again. 

“As your friends, we are glad to know your concerns, and help where we can. Enough of this.” 

Whirl lets his retort fizzle out into static. Yeah. 

Yeah, all right.

**Author's Note:**

> im on tumblr @megatronismegagone. come hmu


End file.
